Him and Her
by ThinkGirl
Summary: "You and I both know my wanting you to stay has nothing to do with your sunny personality." Short,very different, Tomione one-shots. Prompts welcome. #3 - Shattered Souls: If souls were color, yours would be a deep crimson.
1. Sunny Day

He only really got to know her when they were paired together for an assignment. She had seemed pleasant enough through the years, but he had had some ideas about her. That she was a brown-nosing swot, for instance, was one. That she was a good girl, who never broke the rules, was another. Oh, how wrong he was.

He found that she wasn't at all as goody-goody as she seemed at first glance.

He found that she swore so much more than he had ever thought she would.

He found that like him, she didn't trust the teachers to pull them through their exams.

He found that she really didn't need to study as much as he did. She was brilliant anyway.

He found that she was an excellent baker.

He found that her hunger for knowledge rivaled, if not encompassed, his own. He thought he would learn better with her. She agreed.

So they met at every opportunity outside and within school. They'd spend entire hours, poring over books in the library at school, or doing their homework together at a café near where she lived.

That was another thing. They were both surprised to find just how close their houses were.

"Just a few streets away," he had said in awe when he had first found out. But he didn't stay the entire week. Come Friday afternoon, he was always gone.

"I wish you would stay," she had said ruefully, "I miss working with you."

"You like me that much?" he had joked in reply.

"You and I both know my wanting you to stay has nothing to do with your sunny personality," she had retorted. They both knew it didn't. He would fly into fierce tempers if he couldn't find enough to quench his thirst. Only she, and sometimes not even her, could bringhim back to reality.

"Relax, it is only two days, you know," he had consoled her. He did that a lot. Sometimes she would break down crying, when she had too much, when she had too little, when she couldn't control the emotion any longer. It wasn't nearly as often as him, but it seemed like too often to her. Then, it was only him who could calm her down, tell her that everything would be okay, and it was only to him that she would listen.

Outwardly, he was one of the cutest boys in the class, the one who always did well with schoolwork, the one half the girls had a crush on.

Outwardly, she was the smart one, the one whose hand was always in the air first, and the one who could be pretty when she tried.

Outwardly, they were good friends, the two best students, the ones who studied together a lot, the ones who were rumored to be in a relationship.

Not that they were, of course. Knowledge always came first.

A week before the exam, when they were the last people in the library, she had put down her pen exasperatedly and sighed.

"I don't think I'll be able to do it," she had said, resting her forehead in her palm before crying. Crying her silent, shiny tears that he had seen so many times, but never gotten used to. He had wrapped his arms around her and she had buried her head in his chest.

"It'll be alright," he had said, and almost unconsciously, kissed the top of her head. Her head had shot up at that. It was the first time they had ever been, ever tried to be, more than friends. More than partners in the quest for knowledge, helping each other along where needed.

But she had just nodded and hugged him again. And he had hugged her back.

And it was alright. They had written their exams and continued taking external courses. They had waited for months for their results.

"We did it," he had breathed, after staring at the screen on the computer for quite some time. "Five A stars apiece. We did it," he had repeated, with more conviction this time.

The room swarmed with people wanting to congratulate their class on their scores. A flurry of hugs and high-fives had ensued. And then the room was empty.

"We did it," she had echoed softly, before screaming it again. A slow smile had spread across her face, a smile much like his, as she hugged him. They stood that way for a long time. They stood that way until he pulled away a little and she looked up, surprised. They stood that way until he kissed her, slow and sweet, a conclusion of two years of hard work. A conclusion of two years' tantrums, tears and textbooks.

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A/N: This is my first fic, so please leave a review, along with any prompts you may have. Don't hesitate with the constructive critisism, but no hate, please. Affly, M.


	2. Playing With Fire

She can't decide if they are all morons or idiots. Why are they not able to accept the inevitable? Why do they insist on being rebellious when death reincarnate is staring them in the face? Do they not know the meaning of pragmatic?

But, no, they must strain at their metaphorical handcuffs. They must insult him, and throw him disgusted looks. The morons.

She sighs. It seems to be up to her to save her own life, so she moves away from the kicking, screaming pack and demurely sits down in a corner, waiting for him to notice.

Of course he does. He walks over to her, eyes narrowed, with all the poise and grace of a leopard. His presence demands attention, captures stares. It captures hers.

He lowers himself down to her height, balancing with ons knee on the dusty floor. From this close, she can see the details. The way the black leather sits snugly over his light grey t-shirt. The way his impeccably styled hair falls across his forehead just so, poised to be pushed out of his eyes in a flirtatious moment.

She begins to wish she was that flirtatious moment, and in a heartbeat, everything she has been told about his charisma, his charm, that she had dismissed with a scoff, hits her like a train. A sharp intake of breath later, she has her senses back in control.

"You're agreeable," he states. It isn't so much a question as an observation. He prides himself on being able to read everybody, but this girl… This girl, who sits quietly when all her peers rebel, who looks too innocent, with her wide eyes and dark hair, but can't be, is an enigma. A code he must break.

"Better than dead," she replies, her tone almost snarky, but not quite. He raises a manicured eyebrow at that.

"Pragmatic little thing, aren't you?" he shakes his head. He leans in closer, and she can feel the tension in the air skyrocket as she becomes aware of the mere inches separating them. "Dare to play with fire?"

"I'm not afraid of being burnt, pretty boy," she retorts, sparks dancing in her eyes, her tone all ice and fire. He smirks, a cocky, arrogant, smirk that makes her want to slap it off his face. Which she can't do, so she'll settle for next best. She leans in closer still, so her mouth is no more than an inch and a half from his ear.

"Are you?" she whispers, and his blood runs cold, because he can feel her breath on his ear and hear the words resonating over and over in his head, without any of it actually making any sense. Nobody has ever had this effect on him before and it is all so confusing, and he doesn't ever want to feel this way again, feel so out of his depth, so lost and yet he yearns to feel this way again, to lose himself in another's words, to be intoxicated by someone.

All too soon, she draws away from him, and he finds himself missing it. He misses the scent of her, her shampoo, something decisively chocolate, and something very citrus. He misses the warmth of having a body so close, close enough to touch, close enough to kiss. He misses the bright red of her lips, so close; he can almost feel their imprint on his skin, taunting, playful, bold. He doesn't realise that his senses are under assault until they aren't anymore, and then he misses the sensation.

And while part of him, every part of him, really, wants to dive in deeper, see what's in store, he cannot. Not really. Because they are watching. They are always watching.

Waiting to find a chink in his armor, a weak point, something they can exploit, something they can use. Something that will bring his empire tumbling down. He hasn't gotten here by being sloppy, and he isn't about to get sloppy now. Because that is what this leap he is aching to take is: sloppiness.

But…There is a part of him that feels differently. That is willing to _let_ his empire come crashing down if it means that he will feel this way again. That part of him wins. The word falls from his lips unbidden, and there is no turning back.

"No."

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A/N: This one got done really, really fast, because the inspiration just struck, and would not leave me. In the future, updates probably wont be as frequent. Just saying.

To everyone who reviewed/ favourited/followed: thanks a ton!

As always, feedback is greatly appreciated, as are prompts.

Affly,  
M


	3. Shattered Souls

You start out naïve, wide-eyed, with great ambitions of change. You build castles in the air on pillars of reform and a cornerstone of love. Never knowing it all to be a lie. Because, one day, that castle comes crashing down, and you never saw it coming.

That is the first step on the staircase to the depths. It always is.

Your heart hardens, and your world view becomes a little more jaded. The fog lifts and you see just how corrupt the world is; just how power-hungry.

And the staircase becomes more slippery.

Then your moment occurs. A word, a glance, a touch. And everything changes. Everything.

You begin to view the world through a filter. A filter of this dream. A filter of this obsession. A filter of this all-consuming passion you cannot resist, however much you may try.

The world becomes black and white, a monochrome madness you cannot escape. The world becomes sharp but blurred, all at the same time, like a glass cage you cannot shatter. The world becomes distant, as if viewed through a bird's eye, but none of the freedom of soaring through the air exists.

You work feverishly, through the day, through the night, never allowing your mind to stray. Even through sleep; even through pain.

And the goal seems, at first, attainable. A little hard work, a few faked smiles, a few whispered conversations in the darkness. It seems as though, if you were to stretch your hand just a little bit more, it will be there, solid.

Just out of reach.

Except, it stays that way. You put in so much blood, so much sweat, so many tears. And yet, it seems you must still strain just a little bit more. So you do strain; you do pour in more of yourself, give more of yourself.

And, before you know it, you have spent everything. Somewhere along the way, you put in too much, faked a hundred more smiles than you ever thought you might need to, been in the shadows enough to taint you charcoal black. Killed enough to stain your hands red. Elicited enough screams that you now crave their sound.

Somewhere along your way, you lost that innocence, that child-like naiveté that brought you here in the first place. If souls were color, yours would be a deep crimson. You aren't even sure if whatever is within you even warrants being called a soul anymore; a reflection of the past in a broken mirror. You don't recognize yourself now.

It has _become_ you. That hunger has become you.

But you know you are closer than you have ever been. And you need to get there, even if the journey is hard, and uphill, and rips you apart. That is a sacrifice you are willing to make.

You meet others on the way, all after the same thing, all in various states of degeneration. You learn something from every one of them, even if it is only not to go down a certain path. You learn more from some than from others; you form alliances, but that is all they will be. That is all they will be in this cruel game of chess, where everyone is an enemy unless proven otherwise. Where everyone has a common goal and will not hesitate to swallow you whole. A difficult lesson you learn the hard way.

Which is why you are so skeptical of that one charismatic boy who offers you the world on a silver platter. Who's words paint a beautiful picture of the future. Who seems to be sane, whole; _too_ sane, whole. How can he be, when everyday deepens the gash in your own heart? How can he be, when every step widens the gaping abyss within? How, when your very being is crumbling to dust, is he so perfect, a marble statue?

When you voice your thoughts, he just laughs, the sound so addictive, and tells you to wait. And then he lets you see the dark side of him, and everything becomes crystal clear: he is more shattered than you ever thought possible. His perfection a façade, like your own, his charming words a farce, like your own, his entire being held together by cobwebs and dust of old dreams and silent screams, just like your own.

And somehow, that is more perfect than the mask he wore. It is more in sync with you, aims aligned, strides matched. It is more real, more a rock in the turbulence of your quest. And so, slowly, you let him in.

Or, at least, you mean to. But once you begin, it becomes a freefall, faster than the wind, passionate as sin, a white hot flame. It is addictive, a drug. It takes you places you never even dreamed of, heights of ecstasy you thought unattainable.

It is the push you need. It is that forever in disguise that stood between you and your throne. And all too soon, that seat is yours.

And maybe you lost your innocence and your sweetness. But you reached the snow-capped peak, and you are all the better for it.

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 **A/N:** So, what do you think? This one is rather different than the others, but it just seemed right to write it in this style. As always, prompts welcome, and thank you to all my followers. Your love is my motivation.  
Affly,  
M  
P.S.- I stole a couple Taylor Swift lyrics, just in case they looked familiar. I don't own them.


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